The Truce

King Raïm of North Sayfair stared at the wall of the luxurious anteroom. The vacant castle, reserved for meetings in the neutral territory of Middle Sayfair, was given a deep clean and polish in time for such a monumental occasion. The torchlight bounced off of the lustrous golden walls giving the room a rich, warm glow. Queen Maisie stared at the king, his blonde beard was neatly trimmed to a point. He seemed transfixed with the wall. She cleared her throat.

Raïm looked at her with his eyebrow raised. “Yes?” he said.

“Do you think the truce will hold?” the queen asked.

He looked toward the wall again. “As long as it needs to,” he said, “so long as those southerners can keep their word. Which I doubt. Regardless, it will at least give us the time we need to partially rebuild our stores and armies.”

“And what of our baby?” she said.

“This should buy us enough time to ensure, when he is ready, that he can take up arms beside me. We’ll take our land back from the southerners together.”

“And how many cycles of father and son have taken on this venture? How many have died for—what? Land? Legacy?”

Raïm glanced sideways at his wife.

“I do not wish to teach my son the destructive politics of hatred, revenge, and conquest. And I believe Queen Ferra agrees with me, for the sakes—”

“Do you have tea dates with her now?” he said, giving Maisee his full attention. “Listen to me, I don’t care what Queen Ferra thinks.” His face reddened, the vein in his neck pulsed. “Is she my council now? Do I take advice from the wife of my enemy? Should I ask the stable boy next? I’ll wait patiently until he’s done cleaning out the shit and ask what he thinks.” He paused. “I will teach my son whatever I wish. And should I fail to, one of my three councilors shall become regent until he is of age to take on his role.” He looked at the wall.

“But your councilors are bloodthirsty madmen.”

Raïm turned his head slightly to address Maisie. “And rightfully so,” he said, “If your fathers and brothers were killed by these savage southerners, you would—”

“My father and brothers were killed by these ‘savages’, as you know, and yet I still wish for peace.”

“Oh, to be virtuous.”

“I prefer sensible.” She paused. “I propose—”

“I propose you remain silent until this ordeal is over.”

He turned his attention toward the golden wall.

———————

In another anteroom within the same castle, King Octavian paced a ruby-colored rug, his fingers twirling his already curly brown hair. Queen Ferra watched.

“You’ll create a bald spot if you continue,” Ferra said.

“Yes, yes,” he said. He continued to pace, moving his twiddling fingers from his hair to the cuff of his doublet.

“Why do you pace? This is a treaty, not a battle.”

He stopped pacing and placed an outstretched arm against the wall. “Don’t act naïve. You know I don’t trust Raïm.”

“His armies are depleted, as are ours. He would be witless to—”

“Witless, sure. But even so… You never underestimate anyone, especially those with a taste for blood. It would serve you well to learn that.”

“Anyone? What of your generals? They have a yearning for both power and violence.”

“Do you wish to incite paranoia? Is there something I should be aware of?”

“No. But if you should fall, what of our daughter? What’s to stop your generals from removing us and taking the throne?”

He looked to her recently pregnant belly, then to her eyes, her countenance austere. He covered the distance between them in four large steps. He grabbed her by her lower jaw and squeezed, her mouth contorting to the pressure. She didn’t flinch.

“Any usurper within our ranks would be hunted by our people. They would be dirt. Lower even. You know this, so I don’t know why you ask such foolish questions.” Octavian moved his face closer to hers, his eyes bloodshot. “Our child, and that of the queen-slut Maisie, are just convenient political tools that buy us time. If I had known she was a girl when you were pregnant, I would have had her removed so that we could work on a proper heir.” He let go of her face and gave her a light, condescending slap. He paced again. “As it is, we may have an eventual possible alliance if we can marry her off. Eventually. Possibly…” He put his thumbnail in his mouth and began to nibble.

She adjusted her posture and said, “Once we have exchanged desserts, you can breathe freely for a time. We can use that to consider how to approach our next measure. I propose, before the dinner, that we create a marriage contract—”

“Surely you jest.”

“A marriage contract between the son of the north and the daughter of the south. An end to the war. Queen Maisie agrees—”

“You speak with these animals, and you would have my daughter lie with them? I should have your head.”

“Once the customary exchanging of desserts has been observed, the agreement would be ironclad.”

“There will be no marriage between man and animal. I will agree to the truce and nothing more.”

“What I propose is prosperity. With your temporary truce, the war will continue. More people will die needlessly.”

“Death is not needless when it occurs in the rejection of tyranny. Everyone dies eventually. We give them cause for sacrifice.”

“So be it.”

———————

When the herald announced the presence of Raïm as “The one true king of Sayfair”, Octavian, awaiting his introduction, scoffed behind the door of the banquet hall. And while Octavian was announced as “The people’s king of Sayfair”, Raïm—standing by his seat at the table—dug his knuckles into the arm of his chair, his face a shade pinker than before the announcement. Once the kings sat, the queens followed, then the councilors of the north and the generals of the south. The opulent room was decorated with heirlooms: ceremonial swords, historic relics, fine china.

The observance of guest protection applied to all parties in neutral territory. Even so, both kings employed a page to test each drink and meal placed before them. And when both kings took their first bite of a meal or sip of a drink, they stared at each other, unflinching. Raïm repeatedly clenched his white-knuckled fist while Octavian persistently steepled his fingers and cracked them. The queens exchanged looks of discomfort. The generals and councilors took stock of each enemy, trying to figure out who would be best suited to take on whom.

Raïm tapped the table with his knuckle twice. “Shall we discuss the treaty?”

Octavian cracked his knuckles once more, then waved his hand, a conciliatory gesture. “By all means. So long as you don’t suggest a marriage pact.”

Raïm flinched. His lip curled reflexively. “I would never. Why would you mention something so offensive?”

The queens shared a glance, then looked away.

Raïm caught this small gesture. “You?” he said to his queen, Maisie.

“It could end all the bloodshed. It would shield our son. Why wouldn’t you want to do everything in your power to protect him? To protect the citizens of Sayfair?” Maisie said.

Raïm leaned toward her and said in a hushed tone, “You would challenge me here? Now?”

“Yes,” Maisie said, “and with the way this dinner is going, you may as well sign two treaties: one before dinner is served, and one after dessert. This way you can both brawl out back and let out your boyish energies in between.”

Queen Ferra couldn’t help but titter. Raïm shot her an angry glance.

Octavian stood. “As entertaining as this all is, I say we make it simple. Seven years, no advances on either side. Both parties withdraw from Middle Sayfair until those seven years expire.”

“Eight years,” Raïm demanded, less because he wanted eight years and more because he wanted to have some say in the matter.

“Fine,” Octavian said. He looked over to one of his generals and said, “Draw up the treaty and we’ll have it signed after the exchanging of desserts.”

“Perfect,” Raïm said, then he nodded to one of his councilors.

———————

As was the custom, the queens from both houses baked the cake themselves. The dessert made by Queen Maisie was a silky smooth red velvet. Queen Ferra’s was decadent double chocolate. The pages presented the cakes whole in the banquet hall, then moved to the kitchen for slicing. When the pages returned, they divvied up the cakes: Queen Ferra’s double chocolate cake went to King Octavian, Queen Maisie, and the three generals. Likewise, Queen Maisee’s cake went to King Raïm, Queen Ferra, and the three councilors.

Raïm summoned a page to check for poison.

“You would break custom?” Octavian said.

“We’ve done so with the rest of the meal,” Raïm said. Octavian didn’t see the flaw in his logic and summoned a page of his own.

Before either page could taste a slice of cake, Queen Maisie stood and said, “This is ridiculous. I’ll have the first bite. We won’t break custom over this nonsensical behavior.” She gave Ferra a smile. “I trust a fellow queen would do me no harm.”

“It’s not the queen I’m worried about,” Raïm said.

Ferra shot Raïm a brief glare, then she stood as well. She smiled at Maisie and said, “I would be delighted to sample your lovely cake as well.”

They each took a bite of each other’s dessert while the rest of the table stared. Then the queens sat.

“See?” Maisie said. “It’s fine. Quite delicious actually.” She gave Ferra a nod of approval.

“As was yours,” Ferra replied.

The men slowly began to pick up their forks, everyone eyeing their enemies opposite the table. The two kings held their cake-loaded forks in hand, waiting for the other to take the first bite.

Maisie huffed. She began, “Are you still going to—” but didn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she gasped for air and clawed at her throat.

All the men rose, reaching for the swords, but when they remembered they were unarmed, looked around the room for a weapon. The pages scattered.

“I knew it!” Raïm shouted.

Ferra rose, frightened, and said, “But I didn’t—” then she began to wheeze and collapsed to the ground.

“What have you done?” Octavian said.

“I’ve done nothing,” Raïm said, then retrieved a ceremonial sword from the wall. “To arms, men.”

“Yes, to arms,” Octavian said.

The ornery mob of generals and councilors stepped over the bodies of the queens. Each found a weapon and the sword-fighting commenced. One man had his skull crushed by a vase. The rest killed each other by the sword. The two kings matched each other, blow for blow, until they were both on the floor, bleeding out.

Maisie and Ferra rose from the floor, each picked up a sword, and finished the king of the opposing house, then returned to their seats.

“That was simple," Maisie said, looking at the horrific bloodbath. "Though I'm not surprised, men jump at the slightest provocation.” She paused. “You did well."

“As did you.”

“Men do make a mess of things, don’t they?”

“Indeed.”

“Let us settle this bit of business. How will I ever forgive you? You killed my husband.”

“And you mine,” Ferra said. She pretended to think a moment, then said, “In the absence of a king or general, as regent, I propose a truce: a marriage pact between our children.”

“In the absence of a king or councilor, and as regent, I find that favorable.”

They each picked up a piece of their own cake and handed it to the other. When the forks were near their mouths, they made eye contact for a few seconds, but couldn’t suppress the laughter that came.

And then they ate.